Sanguine Dirge IC

The bright midday sky was as clear as it always was over Skariskall, it is said that the heavens smile down on the holy site by command of the gods themselves. Gathered before the robed man were 11 unique individuals, men and women trained to fight and kill, to deceive and destroy, to steal and infiltrate the highest echelons of society and bring down those who led the people of Alor. In the name of purity, peace, and safety. For these men and women have led the common folk of Alor into sin, misery, and death. The Messiah's death had been the gods' last merciful attempt to get the people to rise up on their own and oppose these tyrants. But now the people would have no choice but to rise and claim their freedom or drown in the blood of those they allowed to poison their souls. These men and women would be the stone to cause the ripples of purifying death, thrown by the Sanguine Dirge as commanded by the gods in the memory of the messiah

The man spoke only to Elyan, stepping towards the man with a writ held out in his hand. "This is your Writ of Leadership. Written on this parchment is the name of every member of the group you now control. If one should die the ink will bleed from the page and carve itself into your chest to make sure you remember your failure. When someone new replaces them their blood or essence should be dripped upon the page to manifest their name upon it. Do you understand your responsibility to these men and women? Do you agree to lead them in their dirge?" He pulls out a dagger from beneath his robes and waits for Elyan to hold out his hand for the slice. The man's almost glowing bright blue eyes were locked with Elyan, only him being able to get a good look at the wizened grey bearded elder. He was one the sole leader of the Sanguine Dirge and communicator with the gods themselves. He usually lived within the Holy Sanctum that was built around the cursed sword in this very courtyard, communicating with every Coordinator using his signature summoned ravens. It was right behind him while the much larger temple walls surrounded all of this. The others may have given one drop of blood or essence but Elyan would have to give more, a sign of his responsibility to them and his willingness to sacrifice for them... This would be the last step in his training before he would be given his first target to eliminate with his group

Aloette Viscenna

Aloette was covered in a huge cloak to keep any glance of sun from striking her body yet she took the time to lean over to try and see past Elyan and catch a glimpse of what this so called Holy Tongue looked like. The sun was at her back so she was able to safely perform this risky maneuver. She was told he was a wizard of great power, she wondered if he could reverse her curse but quickly dismissed the thought as if he had such power surely he would have helped all the other vampires who joined the dirge by now. Her eyes turned to Elyan next, he seemed like a strange man just from the way he held himself. Aloette reminded herself not to be too harsh and that most of the people here weirded her out from the simple fact that they did not grow up learning the same etiquette training she had. How to stand, how to speak, how to sneeze, breath, eat, sleep, ect. It was all so controlled and stiff that it made everyone seem like carbon copies of one another. She was glad to see it gone from her life but that didn't stop her from judging people on those standards on reflex. It was something she needed to work on

Samuel Grayfon was adorned in full body plate armor that was reflecting the rays from the sun as Samuel stood up straight with his chest out to the best of his ability after he was fully realizing the importance of the ceremony that was currently occurring. His crimson shoulder cape would be still as Samuel wouldn't be able to stop himself from looking around at all of the individuals in attendance. He would think to himself about how extremely varied everyone was from one another and wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking quick looks at everyone that stood out to him. Some individuals seemed well aged while others looked to be no older than Samuel himself. Others seemed very large and different in appearance and stature while others seemed like they could be overlooked without a second thought.

At this point Samuel would noticeably clench his gauntlet fists and take his right arm and gently place it over his chest plate so as to not make too much noise. His eyes would look down ever so slightly as he couldn't help but be nervous about the intensity of the current situation at hand and for what Samuel imagined to happen going forwards. At this point he would shut his eyes and simply listen to the ceremony as it carried on, attempting to calm himself.

(OOC Going off of the images provided in your cs's If anyone somehow looks differently, I'll edit my post later if requested)

Beneath her mask, the wolf eared assassin silently yawns. Crimson red eyes, darting back and forth, up and down. All the while she stays in a form of rigid attention. Seemingly paying close attention to the display, unless one were to study her closely at least. Kiyoko was not the least bit amused or impressed, minus the fact the building was so well hidden. She could respect that.

A ..somewhat remarkable fact the soldiers from the so called "Village" never bothered to say, was part of why they wore a mask on duty, was so they could hide their expressions, or yawn during customs such as this. Highly trained in their own lands, such ceremony or team building exercises, were a bore. Then there was the old man, he was always taking blood from one person or another, or going on about Messiah this, or Messiah that...and just who would name a kid Messiah.. It didn't matter really.

They spoke of gods, and salvation, yet the simple fact was, those who were strong lived.

Those who were not, died.

The only gods that may exists, were those of Stagnation and Change. Change was mostly brought about with Violence, those in the Dirge were not so bad, they understood that much.

Not that the current trash that ran things were strong. Giving a solemn nod to her own thoughts, Kiyoko finds her mind going back to her first question.. Or rather what parents would name a child such...

Pondering this, the assassin bares her fangs slightly to allow for an exhale of breath, quietly. A sign of agitated boredom, a shrug in a manner. Yet another covert form of disrespect that the Village warriors had learned. If these Warriors had an actual name for themselves, they never readily shared it, or at the most, would matter-of-factly state; "You'll learn of it soon enough." With that mindset in mind, the young woman casts her gaze about on this new team.

From the scent alone, there were a few others like herself... Well, no, that wasn't correct was it? They all smelled, new. They weren't brethren for a number of factors regardless. Then there was.. a body building human child? No that didn't seem right, a half man perhaps? One fellow was wrapped up, much in the same way as she. Though, his scent was strange, as if on the verge of life and death. Finding her thoughts dwelling on this, Kiyoko found herself unsure of if she should drag him off to die, or to try and keep him warm. Narrowing her eyes slightly, that thought was distasteful as of now. As a result, she quickly squashes the notion.

Finishing off the group were, Armored men of one sort or the other, an archer, what she assumed to be a Vampire, the list went on and on. IF anything it was an odd unit. But a contract was a contract. While she didn't have much faith in this leader, or this team, she would follow her orders.. Unless they would end up getting her killed. There was no shame in retreat. Just take your time, come back and kill them later. The hunt never ended.

Glancing to the side, one of the armored men seem rather excited, was he one of those strange believer sorts, green, the so called civilized weaklings..?

Regardless she was fine to let him continue doing this for now. After all the more people that took notice of him or the new leader, meant less risk her yawning would go noticed. Ceremonies were such pointless things when drawn out like this. Just take him to an office, stab him, be done with it in five minutes. But no, the civilized people liked to stand around prattling with justifications and concerns...

Elyan ag Mórgwnystrad Male / Twenty Five / Human"Each man is a hero and an oracle to somebody."

L A T E Ω M O R N I N G

It was always bright here. The sun shone through cracked tiles, through barren streets. The sun's rays reached down to stretch across the cobblestones, and bathe old statues in a bright, clear light. The crumbling faces of weathered marble stood out n bright contrast, the dark pits in the marble contrasting every place the light touched. There were glass windows, within this holy city - tempered blue glass that distorted the reflections of the residents. Their eyes and mouths swirled in the uneven bubbles of the glass, magnifying their flaws, and blurring their features. The streets were empty of moving people, but there were always the statues, looking down with lifeless, cold marble eyes. The light touched them, and made them come alive. Ivy crawled up their arms and legs, and lichen grew uniformly under their outstretches arms, between their rocky toes, in the folds of their tunics and robes. The statues within Skariskall all depicted great men, great women. As he walked down those streets, the foreigner saw many statues, and he recognized their faces.

He passed by four old statues that faced one another. Their faces were all different - but there was all old men. One had a beard that was long, and braided with intricately carved brooches and beads. His hands were covering his eyes, and his mouth was open in a silent, endless scream. A bird’s nest sat on his tongue, and in-between his teeth, the foreigner could see that a whiporwill was sitting on it, incubating her eggs. Beside him, stood another man, beardless and bald, eyes rolling up from underneath heavily carved brows. He had the same scream etched upon his face, and his hands clutched at his bald head, making his marble temples lined with wrinkles. Across from that statue, on the other side of the street - were two other men. One was large, and powerfully built. In his hands, he clutched at a heavy axe; made of real iron, set into the marble. The axe was the only thing that wasn’t bright - the iron was as dark as dark could be. His expression was warlike- with a furious look, and wild hair that stood up in massive, horned curls upon his head. But there was a carved cut across his throat - the sort of cut that could only be made with the axe in his hands.

The traveler passed under their heavy marble arms, his booted feet clicking their heels against the cobblestones. But as he passed the fourth statue, he paused, and turned to face the statue. The statue seemed to look down at him, and extend a hand towards all that passed beneath him. His beard was so long it nearly touched the pedestal the colossus stood upon. Ringlets were carved around his ears, down all the way to the base of his neck. He was smiling - and even in the hard marble, that smile was soft, and gentle. In his outstretched hand, the statue cupped a small pool of water - from the rains that never seemed to last. The foreigner stared at the statue for a moment, and then, turned his head. He looked at the other statues, and he knew who they were.

He spoke their story - not to anybody, because there was nobody there to hear it. But the foreigner spoke the story simply because he wanted to hear it once again. “Four entered the baradwys.” He knew that word had not been spoken in this square for a thousand years. It echoed strangely, and hung in the sunshine over-long. “Sior entered first.” The foreigner turned towards the statue of the screaming, eyeless man; “But he had evil intent, and lost his eyes.” The man continued, staring at the next statue, the bald man. “Then came Brynmor - but he had ill intent, and lost his mind.” The man’s eyes flicked to the statue next to him. In the sun, his eyes seemed strange - too light, a pale yellow-brown with a sheen too them. “And then, the third came. Ardhas believed that the baradwys was not for anyone, and should be cut down. He raised his axe, but the baradwys cut him instead.” The foreigner paused. The sun poured down on his face.

He shifted his posture, and turned away, the last statue still gazing down at the spot where the foreigner had been - looking towards the same spot he had looked for a thousand years. The foreigner did not look at the statue as he passed it by. There was nobody else on the street. Nothing but the statue, continuously looking down at a place where nobody stood. The foreigner whispered the final parts of the old story to himself, because he simply wanted to hear it once again. He wanted to remember it, remember the face of the smiling stature, with its dark eyes, and thick curls. He wanted to return there, to the baradwys where had never been, but had visited many times. “Elisedd was the last to arrive at baradwys. He entered there in peace, and left in peace. In his hands, he carried the Water of Díamair in his hands.” The traveler hummed the psalm under his breath, but that was not how the story ended. He did not want to relive how it ended.

A thousand years ago, the water was poured over the head of the Feaseia. A thousand years ago, Elisedd had dipped the parsley in the water, and bit that bitter herb. A thousand years ago, they marked him with the oil, and then, a thousand years ago, a thousand steps away ; the Messiah was killed, pinned to the ground with a sword that was not his own. That was what the foreigner did not wish to remember, that was the truth he longed to forget. But thoughts of the Feaseia turned and rolled in his head. He saw him clutch his chest, as the sword slung through him. The foreigner chewed at the inside of the lip. He began to walk. He had a thousand steps to go.

B E F O R E Ω N O O N

The eleven elders were looking at him, but the foreigner was not looking at them. He was looking at the ground, head and body bent in a deep bow. The elders ranged from beautiful to ugly, old to young ; elder was only a word; and it only meant respect. And for this reason, the foreigner was launched into his deep bow, staring down at the cracked tiles beneath his boots. The tiles were part of a larger mosaic, a huge motif depicting a great tree. He knew what it meant, even if the elders themselves did not. He traced the branches of the tree with his strange, light eyes. The foreigner did not look like anyone else. His hair was a deep auburn, and he has strangely light eyes, like gold, that caught the line pouring in through blue-glass windows. His leather and enamel-plate armor was carved with images of swans and swallow wings in flight. A long sword hung at his hip, and there was a gold-gilded bow along his back. His lips were slightly chapped, and a small smattering of freckles had crawled across his face. His cheeks were flushed; burnt from the ever persistent sun.

He stared at the tree, and did not take his eyes from it for a second. He traced the dark blue tiles that made up the swirling branches of the tree, and looked at the empty spaces in the grout where there had been once circular tiles. They had been there, but they were gone now. The foreigner knew what happened to them. On the day that the Messiah had been killed, a pair of robbers had come to this room. The circular tiles had been made of silver, inlaid with rubies, to represent the fruit on the Coeden y Brenhinoedd — but they were long gone, and the thieves were dead. Their names were lost to the world, and everyone in it, except for the foreigner. As his light eyes looked at the holes in the grout, he breathed their names, the first time they had been spoken in a thousand years. Amgouant, Guac. The words were lost, as one of the eleven men spoke - standing before his leaning body.

"This is your Writ of Leadership.” The man said. His voice was smooth, and not aged - but the rest of him was. he was old, and had been old for a long time. The foreigner lifted his head, making eye-contact with those old eyes, in old sockets, the skin tight and leathery. His grey beard was streaked with white, and the lines of his face were cavernous. His eyes were bright though, almost unbearably bright. The foreigner met his gaze, and narrowed his eyes. The hum of the cursed sword echoed in his ears, and the foreigner could hear it too. He could hear it echoing in the man’s skull, and he could taste the metallic of its blade. It hung in his mouth. The foreigner nodded, as the writ was offered to him. One of his gauntleted hands closed around the parchment, as the hynaf continued to speak. The words bounced through the interior, and almost drowned out the hum.

The light-eyed foreigner blinked once, at his words. “Written on this parchment is the name of every member of the group you now control.” The elder didn’t know what the foreigner knew - he did not know that thousands of years ago, they had rebelled time and time again because of other men controlling the gwerin, he didn’t know, and he could never know. His fingers curled on the parchment, squeezing it tightly. He nodded once, in understanding. His red hair brushed against his cheeks. The elders were staring at him, and he heard their thoughts buzzing up out of them. Their eyes narrowed beneath their hoods, their hands tensed on their seats. They did not have confidence in him, he suspected. And why should they? He was the foreigner from far away, who spoke a different language than them, and had strange rites to his name. But some things were familiar.

“If one should die the ink will bleed from the page and carve itself into your chest to make sure you remember your failure.” The foreigner nodded once again, and lifted the parchment to his chest, in a salute. He bowed his head against, his long bangs falling infront of his eyes, like a curtain. His eyes were lost in the floor tiles, lost amongst the branches of the fruit-less tree. He heard the sound of the dagger, the steel against scabbard. It was the same dagger that had been used to cut the flesh of the ones who had come behind him. He wondered where they were now - but the foreigner had no way of knowing. He did not ponder it long, because the knife was waiting and ready. Without looking up at the elder, the foreigner pulled the glove from his hand. He threw it down at his feet. The metal clanged against scratched tails. The empty fingers pressed against the hollow where a silver fruit had once been placed.

The foreigner lifted his head. His eyes were bright and he met the the elder’s gaze. He clutched the parchment tightly, and waited for the blade to slice against his open palm. He stood rigid as a statue, clutching the parchment to his chest. He smiled, a thin, small smile that was not truly happy. His eyes were wide and bright, reflecting the sunlight and the flash of the dagger against his skin. As the blood pooled in his wrist - as it inevitably would - as it had done thousands of years ago, he spoke. First, in his own language - then, in this other. His words were soft, and sweet-sounding, but had a certainty to them, a solidness and confidence. “Yr wyf yn credu gyda ffydd llawn yn y ddyfodiad y Feaseia” He looked at the elder, knowing that he could not understand him- knowing that nobody could. But he wanted to say those words again, words that hadn’t been spoken here for a thousand years.” His amber eyes softened, amber and organic in his ever-blushing face. “A hyd yn oed er ei fod oeda , gyda'r holl hynny , yr wyf yn disgwyl iddo gyrraedd gyda phob dydd .” The words had a weight to them. It was an oath. He repeated himself, in the Common tongue. For all to hear, for all to understand. ”I believe with full faith in the coming of the Messiah.” He did not blink or flinch at whatever pain might come. He only spoke. “And even though he tarries, with all that, I await his arrival with every day.” He tilted his head slightly, and his smile faded. His voice was severe, but it murmured his accord; “I am yours.”

MISC Community Pick

Speed of Light, Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, Slow As Molasses

My Usual Online Time:

Late night, Mountain Standard time.

Writing Levels:

Adaptable

Genders You Prefer Playing:

Primarily Prefer Female

Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive:

Usually passive, but I can be aggressive at times.

Favorite Genres:

Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Fandom.

Genre You DON'T Like:

I'm up for mostly anything.

Raven Willow Ashdown

Raven was bored, playing with the ends of a few strands of her hair as she watched from under her hood. What was the point of a big ceremony? Just get to the point, people. Deciding not to dwell on this, and only half paying attention to the ceremony, she scanned her eyes over the crowd of her apparent teammates.

A woman with fangs coming out of her mouth. Wouldn't want to get on her bad side.

A younger-looking armored male that seemed to be excited over the proceedings. Hey, maybe she wasn't the youngest one here.

A...muscular eight year old? No wait, just a really short guy.

An archer. She looked interesting.

Another armored male. Yet another one to look out for. She didn't want to be at the wrong end of that sword.

A man that seemed.....dangerous...and it wasn't even because of his appearance. She'd have to see what was with him when they were free to visit.

Another person dressed in black with a mask. By the build, probably a male. What was his secret?

A girl leaning over the balcony, completely wrapped in black.

Another girl standing at rigid attention, wolf ears obvious for all to see. Now that one wasn't a mystery. She just hoped they'd get along well enough. Cats and wolves....they weren't likely to mix.

Certainly an interesting group. Hopefully one she'd get along with, but she'd take it as it came. And hopefully they didn't hate sarcastic little pun-making shits, because that was exactly what they signed up for when they took this werecat on.

The blood pools in Elyan's hand before the parchment absorbs it and seals the contract. Elyan would now be able to create his own animal familiars to carry magical messages to and from the group members at a distance. With the ritual completed the elder puts his blade away and looks into Elyan's eyes with a knowing and mystical knowledge hidden in his blue orbs. "Then it is so... and you will begin immediately. I know it is sudden but there is a task that requires your attention, yet the circumstances are odd. There is a boy and his family within the pilgrim's respite. They escaped from Askal's Deep, a prison to the southeast within the territory of King Moore the King of the Southern Mountains" The man actually shifts, a bit uncomfortable with his next words "They have suffered greatly under the warden there. A man known for his cruelty, debauchery, and experimentation. The mother is dead and likely was long before her son managed to even get close to out territory... The children are the only witnesses who can tell us any details about the prison, yet the trauma has rendered them untrusting and unwilling to speak to us about it" The man's eyes hardening as he sets Elyan and his group to a menial task before the actual assignment "I hear you have a way with words. I trust you will have no qualms with gathering what information you can from the children before heading out to secure a hideout and destroy Askal's Deep, as well as the warden who runs that cesspool of darkness" It is clear the Sanguine Dirge must destroy such a wicked place and put a stop to the torment that plagues the likely innocent prisoners within. It would be the righteous thing to do

Skariskall is a very simple place in terms of layout. It is a large temple in the mountains that contains small shrines within for each god. From the group's current position facing east they would need to turn around and head inside the temple. From there they will be in the main section of Skariskall known as The Divine Paths. From here there are 3 northern paths that lead to 2 shrines and one that leads to the grand library and the stairs that allow access to the higher floors of the library. To the south there also 3 paths, 2 that lead to shrines, and the other that leads to the necropolis and the Celestial Beacon. The Celestial Beacon is a large magical sphere that glows with holy light and pulses every hour producing a high pitched bell sound every hour. As such the dirge has given the tower that houses it the name The Shining Belltower. Lastly there is the main entrance to the west that leads to a vast cracked set of stairs. At the bottom of these stairs there are two buildings... one to the north known as the Pilgrim's Respite, a place of rest for weary travelers who have business here. It is designed to mimic the comfort of an inn yet also be able to be used as a clinic for the sick and injured... To the south is the massive stone building that is used to teach and train the trainees that would one day serve as Sanguine Agents. It is where everyone trains before assigned a group, in most cases at least. This is all common knowledge for those who have been here for awhile as the layout is simple. Thus their first task as a group was to begin, to interrogate the former captives of Askal's Deep, housed in the Pilgrim's Respite.

Aloette Vinscenna

Aloette heard the words of the old man and the task that they were set to do. She didn't know how she felt about going to bewitch the poor victims who were tortured at such a young age. Aloette may be able to appeal to them with her young appearance, or perhaps she could simply use magic to charm them. She had no idea that Elyan could do something similar with his own magic. She waited for the old man to turn and head back towards the Sanctum before she spoke up "Mr. Elyan, I can lead the way. Perhaps they will react better to me since I look like a child myself." She made sure that her vampiric nature was hidden, her fangs turning into normal teeth and her red eyes turning brown as they were when she was a normal girl. She awaits Elyan and the others to agree to let her lead the way or to make another suggestion. Regardless it will be a 20 minute walk to reach the respite. Plenty of time for them to make each other's acquaintances

Varies. When it comes to my threads, I want to control the setting and what not. But, I can be pretty loosey goosey with suggestions and what not. I don't bite. I just... have certain things I really like in my universe set ups...

High Fantasy & High Sci Fi (I REALLY have to be in the mood for these two)

​

Who knew that his exile from the deserts of Shutaf would lead him into the arms of the Sanguine Dirge? Rather than wander and fulfill his purpose to the Nasaln’nim Jabalhi, Mali’Maele has been inducted into the legendary and deadly group of Alor. Maybe, he wasn’t gung ho about bringing total anarchy to the current system (he’d rather spend his time drinking elderberry wine and wander)? But, the winds led him down this path. The Gods knew that the halfling has some sort of purpose to serve within this mysterious group. What exactly that is… well, he would have to keep his ears turned to the winds. There was one thing clear, however.

They would be doing the work of the great prophet, Messiah. If his 'um was here to witness this, maybe she and the rest of the Nasaln’nim Jabalhi would forgive him and accept Mali as a full-fledged adult?

Along with the halfling, there were others that have once walked a solitary path. Now, the paths have merged together as one, walking underneath the crest of the Sanguine Dirge. The chosen members were interesting enough. Most seemed to be sanal'iin (human), but there was something off about them to say the least. A few stank of death while others reminded him of the wild beasts of Bear’s Woods. Himalja, one sanal'iin had ears on top of their head! An azmq’liaea (high elf) stood in their ranks, wondering where exactly this one hails from. There was even a mixture of sanal'iin and azmq’liaea among them! And… a kat’shari (orc) and azmq’liaea mix?! … now Mali’s seen everything!

It wasn’t long before Mali’s ears tingled as their “leader” spoke to the elder (and to the rest of the indocterned members). The language itself didn’t fit with this time. He can’t recall a time where someone uttered such strange and mystical-sounding words to him. However, he wasn’t put off by it. Rather, there was something serene and calming about the tone. It reminded him of the very words of the Gods that carried through the winds.

His purpose… was it to serve under this mysterious knight?

The ceremony came to an end as the elder quickly explained what’s to come for the new party. Wait… they were to be sent on their first mission now? There wouldn’t be a break for a bit of mead to celebrate? It seems like business would always be on the agenda within the Sanguine Dirge. Already, one of the newest team members stepped forward and offered to lend a shoulder to the children involved in this dreaded affair. She was one of the few sanal'iin that reeked of death, and, yet…. she seemed younger than him! Shifting his quicksilver gaze between the rest of the members, he cleared his voice.

“Soooo… as we are no longer strangers but allies… Iah‘alrr libyaj raa‘lakbisha. I am Mali. Mali’Maele Taneashira. I hail from the Northern Lands of Alor. … too formal?” a goofy smile spread from ear to ear, wondering if the other members of this party mirrored the attitude of the Sanguine Dirge: overly serious and little care in bonding.

As the ceremony was coming to a close, the words that Elyan spoke in the language unknown to Samuel met his ears with a soothing feel that quickly helped calm his anxiety. Samuel himself didn't know much about the tales of the Messiah but at the very least he understood the power that stories and tales hold within them.

Despite the fact that Samuel knew that the Dirge was very strict in how they conducted business he was slightly taken aback when the elder gave them the briefing for the group's first mission and were to begin immediately. Not only that but when Samuel listened to the details in regards to the mission he couldn't help but feel intense sympathy for the children as his thoughts raced back to his own mother's death. However he wouldn't dwell on it long as he noticed the elder leaving them to begin the task at hand.

After the elder left Samuel listened to the suggestion made by the small individual in the cloak and would look to Elyan but before he could speak the muscular halfling would speak as he would seem to try to begin some kind of introductions from everyone. Samuel would smile as he was glad to see another person that seems to have a heart in this dark and corrupted world that they resided in. At this point Samuel would take a single step apart from the group and turn to face Mali's direction with a soft smile and a nod before speaking. His voice sounded like that of a young man's but the softness of his features give off the feel of a boy rather than a young man.. "I didn't think it was too formal at all." As Samuel would take a few steps towards Mali before stopping next to him, each step causing an audible sound of metal armor clanking about. "But I think we can exchange names on the way; its a bit of a walk if I remember and I'd say our friend who spoke first has the right idea." For a moment Samuel would look to Aloette, then Elyan and then to the rest of the group before introducing himself with a smile as well as pointing to his breast plate with one thumb. "The names Samuel by the way, Samuel Grayfon if your gonna be formal about it." As Samuel would give a quick laugh to Mali, joking about the formality of the current situation.

MISC Community Pick

Speed of Light, Several Posts a Day, A Few Posts A Day, Slow As Molasses

My Usual Online Time:

Late night, Mountain Standard time.

Writing Levels:

Adaptable

Genders You Prefer Playing:

Primarily Prefer Female

Playing Style- Passive or Aggressive:

Usually passive, but I can be aggressive at times.

Favorite Genres:

Fantasy, SciFi, Modern, Fandom.

Genre You DON'T Like:

I'm up for mostly anything.

Raven Willow Ashdown

Finally! The ceremony was over! Now they could celebrate- or not? Ugh, fine. Raven flipped her hood down, feeling too hot with her head covered. She didn't need to hide her identity to her (hopefully) soon-to-be friends. While she kept her expression neutral at the mention of the children, she couldn't help but wince slightly at their first mission. Poor kids. She sent a grin at Aloette at her suggestion and nodded.

She hoped she'd be the one to kill the bastard that did this to them.

....Enough of that. People were talking, and here she was not making sarcastic comments. That wouldn't do!

Raven stepped from the back of the group, forward until she was standing next to Mali. "Yes. Too formal," the assassin grumbled. She liked things done quickly, and formality was just plain boring and got in the way of everything."Name's Raven Ashdown," she introduced with a lopsided grin as she tossed her hair out of her face.

The High Elf watched as the humans spoke in tones that made them sound important or at least powerful enough to be "noted" by the Gods. He couldn't help but feel like these fools had no idea what they were doing here. Some of them linked a human to the Gods, calling him the "Messiah" that came bringing forth a new "prophecy" of what came ahead. He scoffed when the older man came forth speaking of their purpose. Even more did he find the situation hilarious when they referenced a adan(human) as a messenger of this supposed Messiah and his Gods. These people really had no idea of what they were doing. Their Gods had nothing to do with the Ancient Gods of the High Elf and Mygdos couldn't help but care less about all the religiosity in this process. No, he'd go as far as saying that he despised their use of religion as an excuse to do what they were doing, as if this Messiah would have approved of such a thing. If the so-called Messiah came bearing the powers of a God, then how come he was killed by simple men? Not empowered men, not demi-godly men but simple men that had the same stench as these that stood near him? The more he questioned, the more bad answers came through.

Mygdos only thought of this as a form to attract people to follow them and so that they could come out as heroes of the public. In their systems, these so-called heroes would be tyrants of the same poor men that they were trying to free. Not wanting to do with the Elayn's rituals and formal attitude, the man turned his back and walked away as soon as he could, hanging on one of the corners of the place.

After the ceremonies were done and all of the formalities were over with, the group made a rendezvous to listen to their first mission. Obviously enough, the assassin was already aware of their mission. It was thanks to him that these children were saved in the first place, after all.

As he walked near the group, he heard many people, some were trying to socialize, others were being direct and giving ideas to the mission. Hearing the peredhil(halfling) speaking of his own origin and his name, he couldn't help but scoff. What kind of work did these people think they were getting into. It seemed like some of them didn't understand the importance of their mission. Truly, however, not even Mygdos understood very well, but that was because he didn't care. Maybe these people didn't care as well. As he thought about it, he sighed and then took a few steps forward, standing almost in the middle of the group. "Suilad, adans" He turned around and greeted them in elvish, calling literally everyone human, as if to make his race clear. "My name is Mygdos. That is all you need to know." Sharp, cold words came out of his lips as he then turned to Elayn and Aloette. "Why be so kind? Be honest with them and appeal to their anger. Tell them that if they come out clean to us, we can give them the chance to kill whoever it was that killed their parents. It's more than enough to motivate most." With those words, he made his intentions pretty clear. Anyone deserved a clean chance at revenge, much like he had. If these chîn(children) were anything like him, all they cared for right now was to see however did this to them dead.

It was as if death swirled around him. In fact, even his presence should be enough to get most people near him offset, as his spirit was raw with an uncontrollable rage. Had he not learned how to conduct this anger towards the right people, he probably would be killing everyone present right now.

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The armor clad barbarian chuckled darkly in amusement at the elf's petty insults, and at his words. A small man with the ego of a big man. As for the rest of them, they were socializing as if they'd come here to make friends or something. Of course, maybe he would, who knew? The mission wasn't what he cared about, so long as he got to fight and kill he was happy.

That was the only reason he was here, he didn't care about their meaningless cause, or their lofty ideals, and he would only follow as long as they continued to lead him to worthy fights, if they didn't he would leave and go find something more to his liking.

Skulls dangling from chains like fruit clacked as they bounced off his armor as he marched, axe slung over his shoulder, his large tower shield on his back, the barbarian towered over the other members of the party. "So what are you good for?" He asked in his course, rough voice of the halfing "You don't seem like you'd be much use in a fight."

The little girl, he decided from how she avoided the sun must be a vampire, which was bizarre, Xarl had killed vampires, they did well in the north, where they were largely immune to the freezing cold. Vampires were natural born predators, and he could respect that, but he'd never heard of a child vampire before.

"Whatever, this is all meaningless, so long as there's some good killing to be done I'm looking forward to this, that was my condition, don't bore me Elyan, if you're weak and you fight weak enemies I'll lose my temper."

Xarl didn't care about introducing himself, not in the slightest, right now he just wanted to sink his axe into that elf's ribs, he hadn't understood the words, but he had understood the tone of voice used, he wasn't angry precisely, or even annoyed, so much that he didn't care for the petty little elf's attitude and thought it'd be amusing to return his insults with his axe.

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"Oh, talking big are we?" Spoke the sole archer of the unit in regards to their "tower" running his mouth regarding their new little family. "I always found it amusing how the boys in big armor wielding oversized blades always ran their mouths at everything... You know, we could say the same thing about you. Armor or weapons doesn't make the warrior. None of us know if you're just a big, scary liability either. Well, unless you plan on talking all foes down with your wit, that is." Ironically, Liandra's new comrades would soon learn that she could run her mouth the best.

With a sigh, the huntswoman did a light curtsy in greeting before introducing herself. "I'm not much for formalities either, however my caretaker seemed rather fond of insisting them upon me despite living away from society and snobs... Regardless, you can all call me Scarlet. I'll be supporting you melee-enthusiasts from afar."

Looking around, the group was filled with all sorts of characters, even some that rivaled that "little girl" that arrived at her doorstep not too long ago. Liandra was still a bit skeptical about the whole thing but—her mentor had not lead her astray since taking her in, if he thought this cause was worth fighting for, it probably was. That, and she wasn't any fan of the current way things worked; whores stayed whores and the rich stayed rich. She was a rarity, and she knew that. Hopefully if this organization accomplished what it wished to, she would no longer be a rarity. If anything, they were motivated. Not even fully introduced and they were already to begin their first mission. Poor kids, she sympathized with them, even if her face didn't show it. Then there was someone else that spoke up in regards to that, some assassin or the like.

"And dark and brooding brings forth an idea stereo-typically... dark and brooding." Sighing, the female scout of the group shook her head. It seemed there were already several that shared a far different mindset. "Mister cloak and dagger, the children are likely terrified. Acting like some creepy cult and promising them blood in return for their assistance is unlikely to get them to be cooperative. They've been in prison and one wardened by a psychopath. The mentality that was drilled into them there wont just wear off when talking to a bunch of strangers."

Listening the others, with formalities, strange languages, and all these unneeded terms was enough to elicit what sounded like a gravely sigh or growl, from the dog eared woman. Raising her right arm up into a two fingered salute, Kiyoko decides to use some of her own people's language, if she couldn't understand what they said at times, she would return it in kind. The so called idiots of the village had plenty of surprises up their sleeves.

"Su cuy'gar! Kaysh gai Kiyoko Sanada. Me'vaar ti gar? " Switching to common, the woman lowers her right hand, taking a more relaxed stance. "Hello, I am Kiyoko Sanada. What's up?" Of course for so many words, that translation did not seem correct. And in part it was not. Literally meaning I see you still live! I am Kiyoko Sanada What's new with you? Course they didn't need to know that.

Rolling her eyes with another sigh, the man she marked to be a barbarian was making his position clear. That one seemed strong, but he also seemed highly self destructive, then there was the half dead smelling man. Kiyoko agreed with most of what he was saying, most being the keyword. Having dealt with such people most of her life, it was almost like sitting around a communal sup fire pit. Enjoying a bit of the Fruit liquor they made, with some roast boar, or other dishes, there always were a few hot headed idiots. While at odds to normal society, her people believed in airing out opinions. While this was rude, the rational was simple; A unit doesn't have to like each other, only do its job and do it well.

Deciding to break the pecking order down, the Archer had to run her mouth.. Pausing for a bit the scent of that man enters her nostrils...was she his child, or one that had spent a long time with him... too young to be a wife.. Letting out the same animal like sound loose once more, there were other matters to focus on.

"Udesii, Udesii." Seemingly patting the air with her left hand, the wolf eared woman, stares at all who were there. "Easy, Easy, Calm down." Pointing her right index at the big man, she lowers her face mask briefly, showcasing a smile full of razor sharp canines. "Ori'buyce, kih'kovid, Kaysh maan kyrbej?" Grinning as the mask went back up, to cover her lower face, the woman has an almost relaxed view on the situation, as she translates. "All Helmet, no head, He wants to be the first to take the battlefield?" Laughing a bit as she stares at him, it wasn't so bad, least to her, with the next remark. "Good! He's big enough to distract the archers!"

Turning her attention to the other being, Kiyoko tilts her head thoughtfully, jabbing a thumb towards his person. "Mygdos'kaguur skira. Me'copaani? Ve'vut beskar'gam?"
Grinning a bit, it was time to switch to common, and likely stick with it. She made her point after all. "You like your Revenge. What do you want? Gold Armor?" Grinning a bit, the wolf eared woman decides to explain the meaning to her cryptic question.

"In my lands, armor is made to have meaning with the color. Gold is for Revenge. Its to make you more easily seen, so your enemies come to you." Pausing for a bit, it was time to address what he had said. "Kids make shitty Soldiers until they are a bit bigger. I agree with the Archer and you. The option for vengeance should be presented, but they aren't reliable enough to kill, they are weak and soft, lacking in training."

"And should we lie to them, and do the kill ourselves. What's that make us? Oath breakers. The woman has the right of that, they are weak, terrified likely. Cowards can only be trusted to work supply lines, not to provide support or combat aid. The Vampire also has the right of it partly...though I don't like her means of it." She says in regards to her suggestion about be friending them.

Having a bit of a thought, it was rather simple minded, but so were children, so it was likely to carry some Merit. Switching back to her native tongue; "Adiik guur' skraan.Bid gotal'ur Adiik, Skraan' ikase." Reaching into the belt pack at her waist, Kiyoko pulls out a paper wrapped item. For such a carnivorous looking woman, the unwrapped item likely came as a surprise. It was a small cake, with a dried dusty like chocolate icing.

"Kids love food, so why not make cakes and other snacks." She says in translation. "Feed em, make em feel a bit safe, then make the offer of vengeance, that we will carry out. If this could wait a few years, I'ld say train em, let them have the glory of the hunt."

Finishing her proposal, the wolf eared assassin wraps her cake back up, setting it aside in the satchel. With a final arm cross it seemed she had no more to say...well not much more.

"Scared kids make shit infantry. We don't tolerate bullying or fear mongering in my lands. Its a good way to get a fist to the face." Exhaling again from her mouth, she found that funny, lots of the people in this land, they had no problems with scaring kids, making them jump at shadows, and false tales. Then they would be surprised, when they grew up into men and women, how cowardly they were. Once you started jumping at shadows, you never stopped. By contrast her tribe was encouraged to chase the shadows.

And if any dangerous beasts lurked within... You killed it.

"Call us thin skinned if you want. Scared and jumpy people make mistakes. Mistakes will send you to what Gods are in this world. I much rather live than laugh."

Looking to the leader, Elyan, Kiyoko nods her head slightly. As if to get his attention, to propose carrying out her suggestion.

"I Can make more of these if yah like, dried meat, maybe some simple toys of bone and wood. The Little one and some of us that are suited can see to em, then when they feel safe, one factor will linger... What's another favor from a comrade? But yer the boss, yeah?" For such a scary woman, it seemed she had a bit of a soft spot for children, or maybe a better understanding of them, depending on ones view.

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Xarl approved of the motion put forth by...the girl with dog ears? That was interesting "A good suggestion, we do not make cubs fight for their lives even where I'm from, the young are to be treasured, not thrown away in the battles of grown men and women." The sentiment might surprise some here, but the Helskyr did not live by pure 'survival of the fittest', they did not coddle their children, but they did treat them with the understanding that they were only children and should not be expected to perform above that.

The barbarian remembered having a childhood, though he now would laugh at the idea he'd ever thought playing with simple toys or in games was 'fun'. His heart had swelled with pride on his twelfth birthday, where he had begun being trained as a warrior, and even more on his twentieth birthday, when he had been fully elevated.

His moment of great glory of course, was when he was one of the one's left standing during the Skull Harvest, he had been twenty-nine then, the skulls of his fallen enemies, hung in chains from his armor even now, from there he had been granted the armor he now wore, the mark of a champion, engraved with the sigils that showed the favor of his god.
With a laugh Xarl clapped the archer who had spoken up on the back roughly, staggering her while boisterously speaking "A feisty one eh? Good! I approve of your spirit, headstrong people are the most enjoyable in life!"

Elyan ag Mórgwnystrad Male / Twenty Five / Human"Each man is a hero and an oracle to somebody."

The foreigner bowed his head, auburn hair framing the sides of his head. Everything was closed, his neck, his posture, his eyes, and his hand; closed and bleeding into a fist. Blood rolled down his knuckles, and down, down into the grooves of the tile floor. The blood filled the holes in the floor where there had once been fruit, but the fruit was long gone. It had been taken by two robbers, and her knew their names and faces when the world had entirely forgotten then. Even the elder, who was looking at him from beneath heavy brows, and bright, too blue eyes. The foreigner pressed his fingers into his heart-line, feeling the soft, and broken flesh between his fingertips. It has sealed, into a thin red scab, the blood staining the paper in his hand. The line was hurting still, and he knew that the ache would last. It would become one of those scars that always hurt, particularly in bad weather and times of sickness. It was the ache of secret knowledge, of a private burden. The foreigner pushed his fingers down hard against his palm, reopening the wound. He let a little blood trickle in-between the lines of his skin. He remembered what the Cailleach had told him all of those years ago. You were chosen. Those words pounded in his ears, with the flow of his blood, with the beating of his own heart.

The foreigner lifted his head, and looked towards the elder. The words tumbled from the elder’s lips; a task in Askal’s Deep, but the words were less important that the elder’s own discomfort. The prison warden; enslaving and abusing children. He knew what that was. Before this blue-eyed elder, another had stood in this same spot. A man with a staff made of hard stone, and a golden flame for a heart. Thynn they had called him, and he was the one who had called for freedom for the gwerin that had come before the Messiah’s time. His people had been enslaved, under the heel of tyrants - and the Gods had sent down visions to Thynn of what he must do, of how he was to free his people. They gave Thynn special powers ; the ability to speak with animals, and command them to destroy the vile kings and slavers of the gwerin. It did not matter, in the end. Thynn’s head had rolled across a far-away floor, where there were no tiles at all, no fruit, no tree. His last words were written in the foreigner’s heart, in his eyes, in his mind; rebellion towards tyrants is obedience towards the Gods.

The foreigner nodded his head, and swept a deep bow before the elder. He raised his hands, the palms facing out, towards the assembly, thumbs upright. His hands crossed one another. He then brought these to his chest, and brought his thumb against the sides of his palms. He outstretched his hands again - and they were slightly cupped. He then clasped his hands again, and straightened his back. The foreigner’s light eyes skimmed across the assembled congregation, bright and searching, staring all of those hooded faces that did not truly know him. He clears his throat, and spoke again; his voice as sweet and serious as dark honey, imported from Timinster; “The Gods’ will be done.” The foreigner turned away from the elders, and stared down at the floor for a moment. He traced the tree with his eyes, and then - looked away from that too.

He turned instead towards the voice of the girl. She had an accent too, a lilt in her voice/ He stared at her with his light eyes, and a small, gentle smile began to spread across his face, dimples appearing around the sides of his mouth, eyebrows raised slightly. He nodded at her words, and gestured with his hands. “Please, lead on, miss.” The foreigner’s voice was light as well. He mimicked her lilt - it was a voice entirely at ease. He offered her his hand, the one free of blood. He had small hands for his height and build, tan-skinned, with callouses around the base of his fingers, in the space between thumb and forefinger. There were old scars around his cuticles, but they had long turned to small, white chip-marks in his flesh. His smile was ready, and genuine; it made his eyes light up, and reflect all of the sunshine that always lingered, and never left. “And please, call me Elyan — what was your name?” His tone was cordial.

She said that she looked like a child - but she was not one. Elyan did not know what she was, but since she was here, she was not a child. Maybe one of the faie, who lurked in the woods, and invited children to come play with them, only to lead them to their deaths. In his youth, he had seen many faie rings, where the bones of children had sunk into the marsh, and their eyes had been eaten by insects. The mushrooms were always thick, and always poisonous, and always eaten. The foreigner had never known a child to refuse one of the faie — and if she was one, he wondered why she was here. But, Elyan was not suspicious of her intentions, nor did he fear her charms. Faie only devoured children, and she had pledged herself to the Dirge - and by extension, his Gods. It did not matter what she once was, or whatever she was now. None of that mattered at all.

Elyan began to walk towards the hall he had come from - that wide and endless temple. He kept pace with the girl, either slowing or quickening his footsteps to match her perfectly, and his smile remained on his face, a sweet, encouraging smile that would not feel real on anyone else. But on him, it was real, it was genuine. It showed in his eyes, and in his cheeks. They entered the great temple, through the massive, oaken doors. The doors were carved with many faces, all looking out at them as Elyan pushed them back; his fingers pressing against their many mouths. The faces, he knew, represented the ten allyriadau; the ten ways that the Gods represented themselves on earth. But nobody knew that anymore. Elyan had seen through the eyes of the man who had carved those doors, watched his knife chip away at the eyes of Severity, or carve the lips of the face of Eternity. His fingers lingered for a moment on the face of Understanding -dealltwriaeth - and he let out a small sigh. His smile flickered on his face, like the torches that cast those faces in light and shadow.

Elyan was launched out of his thoughts by the arrival of his band. The first to speak was a halfling. Elyan knew little of their people; but the ones he did know did not look like this. He was thick, with heavy muscles in his shoulders, and his skin was very dark. White scars crisscrossed everyplace where the halfling’s skin showed, and the foreigner’s eyes traced those scars, imagining, dreaming, thinking about where those scars must have come from. Perhaps he would dream of it. This man was an inversion of all that the foreigner knew of halflings, with their jolly dispositions and red apple cheeks. The foreigner may not have understood this man, or where he had come from, but he did understand what he carried with him - a crossbow and a cudgel. He was a fighter - maybe closer to a thug or a thief that a knight, but a fighter nonetheless. Elyan’s eyes glittered in his face, the torch-light making them seem amber and glowing in his face. He raised his hand to his chest at the halfing’s greeting, and exchanged his own.

“No, we are not strangers, Master Taneashira.” His voice was honeyed, and cordial - but there was a note of hesitation in how he pronounced the halfling’s name, a stutter in his syllables. “I hope I have said that correctly.” His smile turned sheepish, and he dipped his head. “I’m glad to have you along with us.” His words were more solid, as he said this - no notes of hesitation, no stutter or stammer that would make it a lie. “Elyan, of somewhere far away.” Elyan’s grin widened slightly, and he laughed, “Though I don’t suppose that matters.” The foreigner turned his head - others had arrived. He heard their footsteps clack against the hard-wood floor a moment before they arrived, he had had seen their shadows dart across the walls, or the pause in the priest’s chant as they caught sight of these new arrivals to the scene. The ones that had been lurking on the edges, and only now, revealed themselves.

Elyan’s eyes went towards a boy, in silver armor, with thick, dark brown hair. The armor was good quality, and the foreigner could see his face within a polished pauldron, making his features distorted. His nose was longer in the steel, and his eyes high on his face. He looked away from the boy’s shoulder, and up to his eyes. He stared at his eyes. The knight had large, dark eyes that had a youthful roundness in them - a sense of earnestness and honest that seemed to fade away with age. The foreigner nodded towards him, in greeting and agreement, raising his hands once again to his chest. The line of his hand was bleeding slightly, dripping down his heart-line. He pressed his thumb against it, letting the pressure clot the blot, stop the bleeding. He could feel it aching. Elyan began to move again, as the brown-haired knight did, walking and talking all the way. The knight had a small smile on his face, and he suspected it was genuine. There was a lightness in it - softness that matched his features. He was a boy, not a knight. Elyan wondered if there was a witch in his village, wherever he had come from. He wondered what she had said about him. That too, could be found in dreams. “Ser Grayfon, a pleasure.” The foreigner offered him his hand, as they began to walk; “I see you’ve visited Skarsifall before.” He commented, lightly, his eyes skipping over the wood floor to the others that had arrived.

A dark haired, dark robed, dark armored girl. She was dressed for killing, and Elyan knew that. She had curved blades, and the leather of her armor was oiled - to not make sounds as she wandered through the dart. Her boots had thick treads on the bottom of them, so that they could catch onto rough cobbles, tiled roofs, and stone walls without falling. He did not know why she killed, whether it was for coin, for Gods, for country - or simply because she liked it; but she was a killer through and through. Her eyes were bright though, bright and clear. They did not have the glazed over look that cannibals had, or the madness that Elyan had seen in those who killed for sport above everything else. He smiled towards her, and nodded his head once. “Glad to have you with us, Raven.” He laughed, “I’ll curb my formality around you.” His smiled widened, showing his teeth. Elyan had good teeth - relatively white and clean; though one of his canines was strangely twisted in his mouth.

The soft sound of elvish came; a chiming language that sounded more like it was spoken by bells than a mouth. The man who spoke it stood across from Elyan, and the foreigner looked him up and down, his smile twitching closed. In many cultures, it was disrespectful to show your teeth. Elyan knew Elvish - pieces of it. On the long journey from his people, from the burned wreck of the gwerin, Udyrr Many Scarrs ’s had employed an high - elven mercenary. A cruel, snake-like man, with pointed features and hateful arrogance towards all that were not elven. His name was Kawna, named for his unusual, dark red hair. He had none of his people’s grace, but all of their hatred and contempt for that which was not elven. Elyan had asked him how he had become so hateful - and the elf had told him. The foreigner had dreamt the story, and suspected he would remember that story until he died. Elyan’s face involuntarily twitched, a slight tremour at the corner of his eye, and he clenched his hand. He brought it to his chest, and the smile returned to his placid face, as if there was nothing wrong at all. And there wasn’t. It was in the past, and it was not even his past.

“Suilad, aredhel.” The foreigner was careful in his pronunciation - it was clear that he knew the language, at least piecemeal. What was written as a “d” in high-elven was pronounced as a hard “th” ; and if he had been a novice, he would have surely misspoken that. The high-elven language was a relative of his own, in many cases, and that “d” to “eth” was one of them. They called it the “eth”, but the elves did not call it anything at all. Why did they have to have a word for a letter for what they all knew? “Gi nathlam hí.” He said, bowing his head to the elven man, his bangs falling infront of his eyes. You are welcome here - the formal, reverential tense. He fluidly switched to common, and his tone was smooth and clear, “They have a right to anger, but I will not encourage children to kill. Killing is not a choice that children should be forced to make. I will tell them that we will prevent further children from being harmed, and that those who treated them so badly will face the Gods’ inescapable justice.” He nodded once, “They are children. They do not need to kill - not with their own hands.”
Elyan turned towards the barbarian. Large, with a huge axe and a large attitude to go along with it. He could see that the axe had been used many times before. He was goading the others, and his voice was thick and harsh. But the foreigner understood the sort. There were men like that amongst Udyrr’s people, men who wanted to war against one another - simply so that they could fight, and harm, and kill. He had seen fighting pits all across the wide world, filled with people like this man. He was surprised, nonetheless, when the barbarian addressed him by his name. He nodded at his words, his smile fading away, expression drawn and grave. “I assure you, our enemies are not to be trifled with. These are men - great and lesser - that are like weeds. Thick, tough, and always come back.” The foreigner reached out to the barbarian, “Warm greetings, friend. We are all meant to be here - and that includes you. We are all part of the same battlefield.” He laughed lightly, and his smile stretched. “And I promise you, there will be blood and killing. We are the Sanguine Dirge, afterall. They might as well call it the Bloody Death.” His dimples deepened, and he would, if permitted, clap the barbarian on the forearm - before, he nodded to him.

The huntswoman spoke next, and Elyan could not help agree with her. He dipped his head towards her, and spoke in his sweet words; “You’re quite right, miss. Offering them the chance to help others, and bringing honey instead of blood, will likely provide more valuable assistance.” Elyan eyed the huntswoman up and down. She was tall, or seemed so because of her proportions, with long, slender limbs and narrow shoulders. She had thick, dark hair that had a slight curl in it. There was a smell that wafted around her, the smell of characol and cinders, like she had spent time by a campfire recently. There was the bow on her back, a jagged black and angled thing, with arrows that had chevron tips. Elyan knew why. Those arrowheads would catch on skin, shred muscle, rend bones. Her eyes were bright, like embers burning away in her face, and her spirit seemed to match. “Thank you, miss Scarlet — but I am certain that none present are liabilities. If they become such, the Dirge will remove them.” A bit of tension flickered across the foreigner’s face, a tensing of his jaw. He cleared his throat. A shadowy flicker appeared on the wall, the light had changed. It had changed because of the raising of a hand; fingers blocking light.

The source of it was a woman, a woman with sharp teeth and canine features. Elyan’s eyebrows raised, and he turned his head to the side, peering at her. Her language was a strange, guttural thing that bounced around in her throat, and was filled with laughter. He did not know what she was saying, even when she spoken the common tongue, with the same, excitability. She seemed to speaking, largely, to herself - a chattering that sounded like she was still a child. Elyan’s placid smile did not slip from his face, but the tension in his jaw remained. But eventually - she spoke, and Elyan understand. She agreed with Scarlet — and Elyan agreed with her. Scared people did make mistakes. And food was the best incentive.

“I agree with both you, Miss Kiyoko, and Miss Scarlet.” They were nearing the end of the hall. The wooden floor was heavily scraped and scared beneath Elyan’s feet - bearing the marks from many steps, from activity the entrance to the Sanctum never saw. He could hear a chnating far away - and the hum of the sword that had stuck through the Messiah’s heart. It was quiet now, a low buzz like a fly in a jar, but it still existed, and it made the teeth in his gums vibrate. He did not let this discomfort show on his face, speaking clearly and firmly as he outlined his approach: “I suggest we bring the children a gift of some cakes - provided such can be obtained readily. Then, our friend here,” He gestured with his hand to the small, dark haired girl with such large, brown eyes. He could feel coldness coming off of her in waves, “will explain that we intend to stop these men from hurting them - from hurting anyone, ever again. We just need their help.” His eyes narrowed, and small wrinkles appeared at the top of his nose.

“These children will not become killers; not by my command. If that is a choice that they wish to make, that is there choice. But, as it stands, I believe that this temple could use some dusting, or help within its kitchens, to feed the followers.” The foreigner adjusted his posture, so that he addressed the rest of them, “But what happens to the children afterwards is not our primary concern , though I assure you, they will be well cared for.” He smiled, a thin lipped smile, that showed no teeth, “Is that understood?”

As the "pleasantries" of introductions were now in full swing the young warrior would feel more uneasy than before the chatter began. They haven't even started the missions yet and half the group was already talking about killing, vengeance and death like it was they're breakfast, lunch and dinner. Even though Samuel stands only feet from most of these individuals he felt as though he was standing miles away from them at heart. It made him feel heavy in his armor as if he was being weighed down by a dark oppression.

The young warrior would become lost in his thoughts as he talks to himself within his head..."Some...some of these people sound no different than those that we will be targeting." His chest feeling sickened as he knew that he would be working together with specific individuals. He felt scared...

Scared that the large man with skulls on his armor seemed as though he would just as likely swing his axe at his comrades as he would his enemies. Scared of the strong feeling of hatred that came from Mygdos that for a moment made Samuel feel as if he was drowning in continues waves of rage. It made Samuel's warm and comforting aura shrink considerably right along with his feeling of stature. The feeling of deep hatred made him remember the night that he rose as a specter. The hatred he felt as he watched his family perish before his eyes and remembered the faces of those men that he killed that had done the deed. At this point he'd be oblivious to the real world around him and be merely functioning on autopilot as his emotional state would continue to be swayed away; simply nodding in reply to Elyan's and not taking his hand as Elyan had offered for Samuel mind had fallen deeply somewhere else.

His thoughts of fear were now being utterly replaced by anger, anger towards the people that were causing him to be afraid; he thoughts now becoming greatly misjudged and clouded emotional turmoil. Thinking to himself once again..."Can they really only think of such things!?" "Do none of them know the filling of sitting down and eating with loved ones?!" "The feeling of looking down the streets and seeing sons and daughters playing together without having to be afraid?!" His battle of emotions coming to a neck breaking as all thoughts cease like a black void. "...The feeling of knowing that your not really alive...and trying to hide it behind a childish smile..." "Just a dead boy pretending to be a knight..." The boy's anger now fading away leaving only sadness as he remembered what he truly was; an undead boy who knew nothing. He didn't know any other languages, hell he knew he could barely write properly without making mistakes. He wasn't strong, he wasn't greatly skilled nor was he very bright or charismatic; and he knew it to be true. He knew that among these people who gave themselves off as elites or a feeling of importance; Samuel felt as though he had no room to bring forth anything from his own lips past what he had said earlier when introducing himself. He would keep himself on track and follow everyone to the Pilgrim's Respite when said time comes but until then it looks like he isn't going to have much to say to anyone as continues to drown within himself.

After all...how could Samuel expect to help this family when he didn't have the power to protect his own...

Slice of Life; War or Historical settings which require strict accuracy; Fantasy or Sci-Fi that has a billion pages of lore or technology that must be memorized.

Ghegari Don'orah Greygrim

Ever since the ceremony first started, Ghegari had long ago lost herself in silent prayer. Not so much in the midst of a specific religion, but in a spiritual sense, she lost herself to tranquil thoughts and faith in their good fortune. She remained reticent out of respect for the man who would accept the weight of their awful burdens upon himself; the man who she watched seal his promise by the symbolic spilling of his own blood, and who would willingly wear the mantle of leadership -- heavy as it was, for all the responsibility which now rested on his shoulders alone. Whenever Elyan spoke in his own esoteric language, his words were rhythmic and soothing, although foreign to her ears, even having heard the ancient elven tongue of her tribe. Something about him stirred pleasant feelings inside her... and it wasn't just because he had a pleasing face. No, normally she would react with shameless lecherous desire for such a face, but this man made her feel as if that attitude were out of the question; as inappropriate as coveting the messiah in a sexual manner. She found Elyan alluring in all the ways one would find themselves infatuated with fine art. Enraptured... adoring... possessive even. But not wanting to sully him with impure carnal instincts. This man was more than just a piece of pretty meat. If an enlightened mind ever existed in this land, it existed in Elyan. Of that, she was sure.

The shaman was upset to see that quite a few of her new comrades were not of a similar nature. None of them recognized the brilliance that stood before them. Such a shame. They chose to turn on each other instead and began to bicker like immature little brats. What an irony that they fought over the welfare of children when they acted no more disciplined as adults. The young vampire showed more maturity despite being stuck in the form of a small girl, and the halfling too proved to be bigger man in spirit than the ones who towered over him in stature. Those that claimed that couldn't care less only littered their arguments with evidence of caring too much to quit talking about it. They felt the need to declare that they had not been hurt by someone else's insults, to be validated by others in an attempt to appear tough. So much insecurity, bruised egos and misplaced pride.

Ghegari wished only well for them; for the man who will see no one else as his equal, is a man who lives in lonely isolation. In his soul he is hurting, whether he likes to believe it or not; it is why such men speak harsh words and lash out at others; they feel empty and unsatisfied -- like an animal on the edge of starvation, their ferocity stems only from fear and discomfort.

Those wounded souls were staring to become toxic, their negativity suffocating the auras of all those around them. On it's own it would dissipate given time, but for the boy who introduced himself as Samuel, the shaman knew he was more susceptible; she'd spoken to specters before, and to her trained eye she could tell that this boy was one himself. His aura was slightly displaced from his body, not rooted in it all the way -- a tell-tale sign that the connection had been severed, so now he could slip easily free from his physical form. Unlike the haughty high-elf, who also happened to be a specter, Samuel's soul hadn't been as deeply tainted by anger or despair upon his death. The boy was a young, inexperienced specter. Mygdos' darkness could influence this vulnerable spirit and cause emotional contamination if exposure continued for too great a time.

Ghegari approached and placed her hand on Samuel's shoulder. He didn't seem to notice her, which made it a simpler task to lend unsolicited aid. Through her touch, she let a light trace of magic flow into him, transferring feelings of comfort, understanding and acceptance. It drew energy from within her own essence to perform this kind of empathy magic, however, it was not too taxing as it was a very muted, minor and passive sort of spell. She hoped it would help Samuel feel a bit better, if nothing else. He had a kind heart that did not deserve to be blemished by the outbursts of poisonous people. The shaman spoke in a soft voice to let him know, "You are wise to see the others for what they are. Do not worry what they will do or think of you -- cherish your clarity, for they have been blinded by their tragedy and lost sight of what good this world still offers them. You have friends here, young Samuel; I am among them." It was unusual to see an orc with a warm smile, yet here she stood; a gentle giant.

With the introduction of most of the group members to one another and a short discussion on the approach to be utilized when dealing with the children, the group arrives at the Pilgrim's Respite. The place was neigh empty and looked simple in comparison to the ancient architecture of Skariskall. Regardless of it's mundane masonry it could easily serve its purpose as both a place of rest and a place of healing. Though few doctors or healers were present at the moment. Most would be busy treating the sparring injuries in the training facility just across the path. Without their constant and immediate supervision most might die before even reaching the Respite. Still it left those who resided in the sanctuary city without a reliable source of healthcare, some waiting days for treatment or resorting to home remedies. Luckily the majority of residents were capable and independent enough to successfully forage in these dangerous mountains... Wildlife and savage creatures like Kobolds were often all too eager to ambush the weary or inattentive. With a steady and confident stride Aloette entered the Respite, pushing open the stone door and cringing from the sound of poorly maintained hinges squeaking. Such sounds were disliked by someone of Aloette's status though she would not complain about it, she didn't want to seem weak or whiney to her new companions. As if they were expected to arrive, a shrill voice rings out from behind the counter belonging to an old hag with a crooked nose and sagging jowls "The children are just through here... though I think you are wasting your time, they are rather unresponsive from the look of it..." The hag points to her left, the group's right... Down the hall there are many doors but only one of them marked with a crimson ribbon on the door handle to signify occupancy

With a deep breath Aloette gives the woman a curt nod and speaks politely "Thank you miss, I appreciate your assistance. We shall see if we will have better luck than any others who have met with them" The old woman snorts and her deep wrinkles seem to multiply as she smiles "You misunderstand. No-one has gone to see them for they seemed like a lost cause to begin with! But no matter, move along lest you disturb my reading" The hag returns to reading her copy of Mercy and Justice, a massive religious tome that speaks on the Gods and their differing viewpoints on what constitutes the execution of violent justice vs forgiving mercy... Aloette shakes her head in disgust and leads the way to the occupied room. She turns the handle and gently opens the door, stepping into the windowless room lit by a large and bright lantern. Her hand goes to her mouth as she sees the state of its occupants. The boy looks at her and the rest of the group with one bloodshot tear stricken eye, the left one missing as if pried from his skull long ago. The same side of his face is also badly scarred reminiscent of being lit ablaze while the entirety of his face is swollen and bruised up, the child of 14 is also missing his left arm and is clothed only in ragged and torn shorts. His chest is a mess of scabs, scars, and infected lash wounds... the boy's ankles are bruised badly in the shape of rings indicating he was shackled tightly to prevent escape. He is currently on his knees looking over the upper torso of his mother's corpse. She was seemingly cleaved in half and had likely died long before they ever reached the territory of the Sanguine Dirge. The mother is otherwise just as scarred up and beaten as the boy though is missing no eyes, yet all of her teeth and fingernails. The girl, possibly 13 is seated in the very corner of the room. Her eyes are empty as if she isn't really aware of where she is or what is happening. She is completely uninjured and besides being rather dirty from the journey seems to be in perfect health. Her torture could only be guessed as mental or spiritual, though the specters and the shaman in the room would easily be able to detect that this is not the case. The good doctor however would be able to tell that the girl has been exposed to many different drugs based off the chemical residue on her clothes, in her hair, and the smells themselves. He can also tell in a similar fashion that she was likely the pet of a member of nobility for depraved and humiliating purposes. Aloette isn't able to fathom the sight of such ruthless torture just from the other two, if she knew about the circumstances that had broken the other girl she might actually cry from the horror of it. At this point the vampire is still and unable to continue forward with the plan she had thought of

The black-clothed man watched as the sounds of other people's disagreement came in flurries. It hardly mattered, all that he wanted was for the option of revenge to be there.

The first to speak was the large armored man. He spoke in a manner that made him sound barbaric, but Mygdos was accepting of that. In fact, he could use barbaric people. All they cared for was the heat of the battle and nothing else, something quite simple to understand and not very complex at all. You could say this man's line of thought was not too far from Mygdos'. After all, everything the elf cared for was for his vengeance. The difference was that the man cared for the battle itself, whereas Mygdos cared for the reason to kill. Right now, his only reason to kill was to see his most hated enemies gone from this world. However, he'd never sell himself so short as to only care for the fight. Druadans were put down by their own will to fight, and most didn't even seem to care.

What followed after was the typical response of any adan to his words. The young woman spoke words that made her sound like one of the ruffians or homeless of firen caras, who struggled in the alleyways to live. She called him "dark and brooding", words associated with the how he only cared for his vengeance. She wasn't the first to try to classify him like that, and he hardly took it as an insult. He allowed them to speak, and then even the soldier once more spoke of how things were on his land. Although Mygdos didn't care much to look at them, he wasn't as much of an isolationist to ignore what they said. He still thought some of it was correct.

What followed next was a boasting woman with wolf ears. He could tell, this one was trouble. She immediately spoke to him, talking about how he'd wear a golden armor were he of her tribe and about how the children would make poor soldiers. He couldn't help but agree, but his initial point wasn't to make them soldiers, but to give them the taste of revenge. "I prefer to kill people before they notice me, that way they don't even get a chance at redemption or at arguing with my reasons." A direct phrase. He didn't like this idea of being thought off as only the symbol of vengeance, but it was much truth. His entire existence was devoted to this. His very soul was made out of his clan's wish for vengeance. There was no reason to say he didn't like vengeance, when his reason to be alive was to achieve it.

He agreed with the big man and the dog, children were bad soldiers. However, one doesn't need to be a soldier to kill. Mygdos was pretty sure that most of the kills of the entire history were not made by soldiers. However, it was the voice that came after that caused him to turn to it. The sound of his own language. "Suilad, aredhel." The man in black immediately turned his face to it. A smile. Not a kind one, but one mixed with respect. Be it fake or true, it didn't matter. He bowed in response. As the words of the man came out of his mouth, he sighed and turned around. "You have earned my respect, adan. Thank you for reminding me that there are still people who know of my language." Those words came out of his mouth as if they weren't natural from it, but he meant it.

With that, he was about to leave the group once more to lurk in the shadows, but something else called his attention. He felt another one like him. A specter. As he felt it, he turned to see who it was, and saw the young boy who had presented himself earlier as... Samuel. He looked to the boy to see him drowning in the dark energy of his rage and anger. Internally, he sighed to himself. I am not a monster. He said those words to his mind. He walked towards the boy as he was being comforted by the elf, who apparently was also able to notice. As he walked, the swirls of the rage, anger and the stench of death followed after. He stopped right in front of the boy as he looked at the orc briefly. He could tell she was aware. As he was incredibly close, the darkness of his rage was fading. He pushed his fist against the boy's chest, as if to wake him up. "Smile, boy. People like me didn't have a chance at life, it's not like I'm gonna have a chance at it after I died." In that brief moment the aura that contained and mixed the rage, all the uncontrollable anger stopped. Those words were said directly to him in a tone that only he and the orc, being near enough, could hear. The dark spirit quickly turned his eyes up to the orc, revealing the large scar on his face. The elf said nothing else as he turned around and moved to the shadows once more. He shouldn't stay too near of the group, lest they'd become just as easily angered and capable of rampaging as he was.

As he moved away from the group, the swirling stench of death and the strong feeling of rage immediately dissipated, as if he had taken it all along with him.

A few minutes later, the group arrived at the Respite. He followed, slightly behind them, but aware of what was happening. Once they entered the Respite, he stood outside for a few seconds. Noticing their presence further below, he followed.

The gruesome sight was not a surprise to him, which is why he stood the furthers behind the group. He knew very well about their situation and what had happened to some of them. Hell, he saw the mother being cleaved in half as they tried to escape himself. Truth being, the only thing he did was bring them here. When he had seen them, they had already escaped the prison. He wasn't aware of anything that happened to them, but he knew very well that they were shaken, you could feel their pain even in their soul. Such spirits deserved the same fulfilling feeling of achieving vengeance that he had received. It was a blessing from the gods to feel the bliss in seeing your enemy being decapitated right in front of you. Those who could thrive in it, would be happy eventually. Those who obsessed over it, would never be happy. Then again, Mygdos never really sought happiness, not like he desired for it badly. No... All he wanted was to see them dead. Now that he thought about it, he'd be very happy at that sight...

The dark spirit almost smiled at the reaction of the vampire. She had been so brave then but now she wasn't able of moving a finger. Expected by him, but he wasn't going to interfere. This wasn't his field. He was very good at killing, but not so much at convincing other people.

Scoffing a bit at the elf, the wolf eared woman laughs. "I rather be seen, but I think we both can agree on the rest. Oi! Some of yeah help me with this shit task."

Taking note of the younger silent knight, unless he was directed correctly, he would be a problem, for her this was business. Regardless, she had work to do, and no point in engaging in pleasantries. Giving a nod to her boss, she heads off with soft steps, to make a few food items of her people. Later on she would be snarling and growling, being made to wear a hood, to hide what and who she was. At least they could have given her an armored mask..

Taking note of the Nun upon her arrival, Kiyoko earmarked her as a useless person, dead weight, a human shield at most. Not caring to disrupt her employers work, the woman keeps her remarks to herself, meeting eyes with the Nun briefly. And these fools believed their gods and religion would save anything, when these were the very people that represented it.

Upon entering the Room, Kiyoko knew she wouldn't like what was on the other side, just from the smell. It was a smell she knew well enough. Death and the dying. Upon the opening of the door and its grim scenery, the Assassin moves forward, not dazed by the situation at all. She had seen similar before after all. "Civilized people, don't bury their dead I see. Rather read books I guess." Chuckling at that, Kiyoko kneels to study the boy. He was battle fatigued has her people termed it. Short of supply roles, he would be useless, with one arm and eye, he could only walk point, take the first hit in an ambush. His life was ruined, at best maybe he could be a smith that worked on handed.. No even that might be beyond his reach. As to the girl, she was broken.

By her own people's terms, both would be executed for mercies sake alone. With the Vampire froze in her tracks, the elf likely smiling as smug as could be, and the rest being civilized, she knew it would take time for them to respond. The wounds needed to be dealt with, but more importantly...

Squatting down before the boy, her red eyes stare at him, as her hands go for the mother. There was one thing she could try, one she could do.

"Oi Boy. You mother deserves a burial. She did her best, and while these, civilized shits won't give it to her, I will. Your stare is that of an old man..you can sit their, trapped in a cell. You can deny what's in front of yah. But remember some shred of pride as a fucking living being. "

"You can try and stop me if you want...you can come and see her off, or yah can sit their an waddle in yer shit. I won't treat you like a toy, or some little animal that needs a coddling. Yer a Human aren't yah?...think I'll throw that gods damned nun off a tower when I see a chance once I'm done.. She failed her station. Wouldn't hurt to remind these people of the price of that."

Laying her hands on the mother and moving to drag her off, she stares at him one last time. "I won't lie to yah boy, you're in a bad way... Hell I don't think even my great food will help much. But you have a duty, even if you have to crawl and fight tooth and nail. There is no shame in dying a warriors death, only in living a slaves life." Not showing any sympathy at all, she talks to him, as if nothing had happened. It was a normal situation, there was no hugs, no tears, no bargains.

A demand and a statement. While it was harsh in a manner, him being treated normally might get a response, or his mother being taken. Something had to be done to waken him up.

She had a reaction of her own planned for that, though it may do more harm than good, or just maybe the inverse. And of course there were the other civilized, some of whom would likely take offense in what she did. But the woman deserved better than this, she had meant that. Her people at least buried the dead, they didn't leave them in a cell to stare at their bloody son. No wonder the boy wasn't responsive, were they stupid, or scared of him throwing a fit? Weaklings.

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